Cash eased into the passenger seat of Colcord’s vehicle, a late-model black Suburban with sheriff’s department decals. Her hand slid over the luxurious russet leather of the seat.
“Nice wheels,” she said. “Eagle County must have plenty of money.”
“We’re fortunate,” he said. “In addition to Erebus, we have Vail and a bunch of other ski resorts. That gives us a rich tax base but not a lot of infrastructure to keep up. Nineteen hundred square miles and only fifty-five thousand people. The county is mostly wilderness.”
“You ever ski at Vail?” she asked.
“Oh, sure.”
“You good?”
“I used to be. Now I don’t take too many risks, just go nice and easy on the groomers. And you?”
“I took up skiing when I moved here ten years ago. I suck.”
“Just being in the mountains is what it’s all about.”
They drove awhile in silence, working their way down the valley. She had been curious for a while about the sheriff’s background. He was quiet and unassuming, not like a lot of other elected sheriffs she’d worked with.
“So what’s your story?” she asked abruptly.
“My story?” Colcord sounded surprised. “Born here, grew up on a ranch west of Durango. The usual ranching childhood.”
“What’s the usual ranching childhood?”
“Felt like most of the time I was stretching barbed wire and hunting lost cows. But it was a good childhood. Nothing tragic, no broken home, great dad. I was lucky. We had cattle and horses, an irrigated section of alfalfa. Hunting and fishing in the San Juans. Growing up in Colorado is like growing up in heaven.”
“You had your own horse?”
“Oh yeah. Chewbacca. A shaggy, dun-colored grade horse.”
“Chewbacca? What kind of name is that for a horse?”
“Named by a kid who loved Star Wars.”
Cash laughed. “Okay. And then?”
“Did my twenty in the military, moved to Eagle, bought a café, ran for county sheriff, won.”
“Which branch?”
“Army.”
“Rank?”
“Lieutenant colonel, now retired.”
“Wow, that’s impressive.”
“If you’re reasonably competent and get along with people, it’s not so hard to make the grade in twenty years.”
“You were a commissioned officer?”
“West Point class of ’95.”
“Did you see action?”
“Iraq. Three tours.”
“Was it worth it?”
This question elicited a sudden silence. “I don’t know you well enough,” said Colcord slowly, “to go into the long answer to that question.”
Judging from the darkening tone in his voice, Cash realized she had trod on sensitive ground and changed the subject. “You own a café?”
“The Ore House in Eagle.”
“When did you drop the W-H?”
“Very funny. It was once an assay office. Pressed tin ceiling, creaking wooden floors, comfortable furniture, woodstove going in the winter, homemade scones and pastries and good, strong coffee.”
“My kind of place.” She liked the sense of pride in his voice.
“Drop in sometime.”
“You going to run for sheriff again?”
“These are a lot of questions, Agent Cash.”
“I’m nosy.”
“Watch out, I’m going to turn the tables on you.”
“You can try.”
The road passed through a narrow ravine and topped out in a valley with a stream flowing through it. The ghost town was spread out on both sides of the river, with an old wooden bridge across it—a picturesque cluster of batten board buildings, stables, corrals, and a narrow church with a steeple. At the entrance to the town, a dirt parking lot was filled with movie vans and trailers, along with several cherry pickers, cranes, and other equipment.
They drove up to where the road into town was blocked with a gate. A man at the gate came over and bent down to look in the car.
“We’re here to see Slavomir Doyle,” said the sheriff, showing his badge.
“He’s shooting a scene,” said the man. “Does he know you’re coming?”
“Yes. I made an appointment.”
“Park over there. I’ll bring you over to the shoot.”
They parked and followed him past the gate into the lone dirt street leading through town. It was a classic Western town, with long boardwalks, saloons, livery, a hotel, dry goods store, sheriff’s office, jail, and at the far end, a gallows.
“Who you gonna hang?” Cash asked.
“I don’t know. That’s for the movie.”
“What’s it called?”
“Hannibal and the Baron. Starring Brock Ballou.” He paused with reverence at the naming of the famous star. Then he went on. “It’s sort of Cowboys and Aliens meets Jurassic Park. A herd of mammoths gets caught in a time warp and appear in the 1880s, and a bunch of cowboys catch and break them, and then ride them into town to save it from a railroad baron and his gang of killers.”
“Right, okay,” was all Cash could say.
“Is it … a comedy?” ventured Colcord.
“No, no. It’s a Western,” the man said.
As they approached, a bunch of lights on towers and tripods came into view, set up outside the main saloon, with a number of camera operators. Two groups of cowboys were facing off on the dirt street. Cash could see that one was Ballou, wearing a tall white hat, standing clean and straight, while the other was a dirty slouching man with greasepaint smeared on his face, a black hat, stubble, and a missing front tooth.
“Gee,” said Cash, “I wonder which one’s the bad guy?”
The director, Slavomir Doyle, was standing behind a camera, shouting and waving his hand. His voice was shrill and high, and it cut the air like the cawing of a crow.
“Um, it looks like he’s still busy,” said their escort. “Can you wait?”
“No,” said Colcord, his voice suddenly devoid of its usual friendly warmth. “We can’t.”
This was a side to Colcord Cash hadn’t seen before. She decided to hang back and let him take the lead.
“Okay, well, let me check and see …”
“You don’t need to check anything,” said Colcord, brushing past him and striding toward Doyle. “Mr. Doyle?” he boomed out. “Sheriff Colcord.”
“Cut! Cut!” The man spun around, his face furious. “What the hell? Can’t you see we’re shooting a scene here?”
Colcord went straight up to him, opening his jacket to display his star and moving well into Doyle’s personal space before halting. “And my associate, Agent in Charge Cash of the Colorado Bureau of Investigation.”
Cash watched, amused. Ballou stood in the middle of the dusty street, hands on his hips. He began striding over, an annoyed look on his face. “What’s going on here?” he asked. “Who are these people?”
Colcord turned to him. “We have an appointment with Mr. Doyle. You’ll have to excuse us, Mr. … Sorry, your name?”
Ballou stared at him, outraged that the man didn’t know who he was.
Without waiting for an answer, Colcord turned his back on the movie star and spoke to Doyle again. “That looks like an appropriate place to chat,” he said, pointing toward the sheriff’s office. “After you. We’re in a hurry.”
“Hold on!” Ballou demanded in a loud stage voice. “We’re in the middle of shooting a scene!”
Colcord turned to him. “Do you mind, mister?”
“I do mind. Very much so. My time is extremely valuable.” He positioned himself to where he was blocking Colcord’s path forward, standing with arms crossed. Cash could see that this was not a good move on Ballou’s part.
Colcord said coldly, “Why don’t you go back to your trailer and powder your nose while we have a chat with Mr. Doyle here. Or would you rather garner the publicity of being charged with obstructing a law enforcement officer—Mr. Ballou?”
Ballou stared at him for a moment and then stepped aside with a scowl.
“Let’s go,” said Colcord to Doyle in a decidedly unfriendly tone.
Doyle cursed under his breath and walked stiffly toward the office, leaving the rest of the actors and crew standing in stunned silence. They went inside. Colcord immediately took the chair behind the sheriff’s desk and leaned back, hands behind his head. Cash sat on the far side.
Doyle remained standing. “Jesus fuck, you can’t talk to my leading man that way. And I’m trying to shoot a movie here—”
“Jesus doesn’t fuck,” said Colcord. “We had an appointment. This won’t take long. Of course, it’s entirely voluntary.” He put his feet up on the desk with a thunk. “I feel quite at home here,” he said pleasantly, looking around. “Better than my own office. Have a seat, Doyle.”
Doyle sat down.
Cash looked at him curiously. He was a small, intense man, with a head of curly black hair, in his late thirties perhaps. He had an Irish accent and one of those diminutive faces with the features a little too close together, graced by a sharp little red nose. The blue eyes were extremely intelligent, restless, and wary.
“Look, I want to be helpful,” Doyle said, “but the incident took place many miles up the valley—nothing to do with us.”
Colcord put his feet back down and sat up, placing his cell phone on the desktop, pointing at Doyle. “Could you please state your name and title for the record?”
“Slavomir Doyle, DGA, director of Hannibal and the Baron.”
“Thank you. Interviewing are James Colcord, sheriff, Eagle County, and Agent in Charge Frances Cash, Colorado Bureau of Investigation.” He reeled off the date and location, then paused and smiled. His affability had returned.
Cash decided to sit back and let him do the talking.
“Now, Mr. Doyle, could you tell me what you were doing at the time of the killing—that is, at nine p.m. two nights ago?”
“We were shooting a night scene. Wrapped at midnight.”
“How much of your crew were there?”
“Almost everyone. Except that the accountant, catering chief, and a few others were off that night.”
“How many are you in total?”
“Thirty-two. We probably had twenty-five or so on set.”
“Where are you all staying?”
“The lodge has accommodations for film crews.”
“Can you account for everyone at the time of the killing?”
“Of course not.”
“I’d like you to ask your people where everyone was. Get everyone to write down where they were between eight and ten and who they were with, if anyone. Circulate a piece of paper, have them write down the information, and sign it. We may pick out individuals to interview separately.”
Doyle frowned. “Is this really necessary?”
“It’s strictly voluntary, like I said. But you know the line they use in the cop shows—you will find the alternative to be most inconvenient.”
“Funny, I never heard that line.”
“Then you’re welcome to it.” Colcord turned to Cash. “Do you have any questions?”
“I do.” She turned to Doyle. “Are you working with trained mammoths?”
“Oh, no. We aren’t allowed to disturb the animals. We’re shooting B-roll of the mammoths in their natural environment. The mammoth action scenes will be CG.”
“What’s the financial arrangement between you and Erebus?”
“The ghost town was restored to be used as a movie set. We contracted to use it for five weeks, paying a daily rate.”
“Which is?”
“Ninety-five thousand.”
“A day?”
“It includes room and board and catering on set. And the mammoths.”
Cash whistled. “And how far along are you?”
“Three weeks in, two to go.”
“Have you had any disputes on set, or difficulties with Erebus?”
“Nothing. Erebus isn’t cheap, that’s for sure, but they’ve been fine to work with. Totally professional. Sure, we’ve had conflicts on set, nothing beyond the usual. No violence, just the usual arguments you have. Nobody accidentally shot by an actor.” He smiled thinly.
Cash glanced at Colcord. “No more questions from me.”
“Thank you, Mr. Doyle. Please get us that list by the end of the day.”
Doyle slapped his arms on the chair and got up. “I’m getting back to my scene, if I can get my star back out of his trailer. Louis will show you out.”
After he left, Cash turned to Colcord. “Nice work.”
“Aw, shucks,” said Colcord.